


Unseasonably Cold

by Galadriel



Category: Eastern Promises (2007)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 22:02:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/Galadriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He will always be Nikolai, he promises himself, and he will always be this happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unseasonably Cold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pear/gifts).



> Many thanks to [nikkie222](http://nikkie222.livejournal.com/), for her incredible [roundup of information on Nikolai's tattoos](http://nikkie222.livejournal.com/25507.html), and to a few pompom-waving friends who will be named at a later date.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this story, Pear! I've tried to incorporate a number of aspects from your request, hopefully to good effect. Happy Yuletide!

The air is crisp on his tongue, a swirl of leaves skittering across his path, autumn well and truly come before the wash of winter. He fills his lungs with the pleasant biting breeze, tugging the wool of his coat closer around his neck, trying his best to capture this one moment in time, remember it forever, remember who he is, here and now, forever.

He can feel the corners of his mouth turn up as the wind scoops up a brown leaf, tossing it playfully at him, caressing the strands of hair that hang loose around his face until the leaf catches and clings. It crackles under his fingers as he tugs it free, disintegrating into nothing more than a handful of dust that blows away before he can so much as curl his palm closed around it.

"Hurry up, Nikolai!" The group of boys ahead of him pause, grinning and shouting almost as one, beckoning him closer. He's fallen behind, caught up in the season's breath, in the stretching dirt track at his feet, in the drifts of leaves that crunch beneath his shoes.

As he quickens his pace, closing the distance between himself and his friends, his shoulder prickles, the fresh ink under the bandage marking him, naming him, a cursive entry in this first promising chapter of his life.

He will always be Nikolai, he promises himself, and he will always be this happy.

***

  
He knows he is lucky to still be alive, and so close to unscathed. The stitches above his lip itch and tug as he breathes, a constant reminder of the scuffle in the exercise yard only a handful of hours earlier. He shivers even now, the bite of autumn an unwelcome one, the thin prison-issued coats no refuge from the cold, from the snow that falls from the sky only to melt as it alights on ground, guard and felon alike.

It is far too cold to be out, far too cold to burn hot with temper, and yet both snowflakes and blood puddle and spread as they hit the still-warm ground. Nikolai can still feel the way they spattered against his face as he wrenched the sharpened toothbrush from his attacker's hand, slitting the man's throat; weapon turned traitor, a fair exchange for his own split lip.

The boot-black heel smoulders as it burns, the fumes noxious enough to make Nikolai's eyes sting and water. The smoke -- a thick, inky mess -- spirals as it rises, seeking out the tiny cracks in the walls that let the bitter cold in. He will have to barter for another pair of shoes now that he has broken these, but it is worth the price, worth the haggling hassle, paid for in tiny trinkets, sweat, blood and flesh. By evening, armed with blacking and piss, he will have teased the beginnings of his snake, his dagger out of his skin. One more mark to add to his collection, one more stain to spread over what is left of his tattered soul.

It's becoming harder and harder to separate himself from the man he pretends to be.

***

  
The brickwork is cool against his palms, a stark contrast to the heat of Kirill's body, arched up and grinding against him. With the amount of alcohol Kirill has imbibed -- all expensive, all refined, and yet wasted on Kirill's palate, Nikolai is sure -- it's a wonder he's able to stay upright.

They've slipped and slid out here to the alleyway at Kirill's urging, neither man's shoes made to keep traction in such snow. It's so easy, _too_ easy to gently nudge him in the right direction, provide just enough mystery, enough attention to pique more than Kirill's interest, manoeuvring him right where Nikolai needs him to be. The FSB's intel is not wrong: Kirill is the weak link in the chain, his head easily turned by the right man giving him the right amount of affection.

They've known each other for less than twenty minutes, and affection seems to be all that is on Kirill's mind. His hips buck against Nikolai's, squirming for more contact even as he shudders against the wall. Nikolai grasps his wrists, pulling them over his head, pinning him in place, taking some small satisfaction in how being even slightly restrained makes Kirill gasp and moan.

Kirill tastes of oak and spice, caramel and molasses. If Nikolai was not so focussed on his goal, he'd linger there, drinking in Kirill's kiss, letting sobriety fall away like an old coat.

Instead, he spreads his own coat around the both of them, leaning more heavily against Kirill, jerking at his belt, his fly, struggling to get the zipper down with only one hand until he can slip his fingers past the cloth, curling them around Kirill's cock, revelling in the jerk of Kirill's hips, the thump of his head against the wall.

As his knuckles brush Kirill's abdomen, Nikolai can feel the tattoos that brand him catching fire where they touch, a strange companion to the sharp burn of each inhale, the frigid air turned to knives in his lungs. He strokes Kirill in long, smooth movements, wondering if Kirill's own tattoos tingle at the contact, or if he simply feels the prickle of the cold.

"Kolya," Kirill slurs, the sudden sound startling Nikolai out of his reverie. The curve of a smile tugs Kirill's lips upward in something mimicking slyness, the hard glint of possession glittering in his eyes. "_My_ Kolya."

Nikolai nods. "Kolya," he breathes; if that's who Kirill needs, then that is who he will be.

***

  
Nikolai brushes down his coat whenever he reenters the Trans-Siberian, no matter what the weather outside. It's important to keep up appearances, especially when the substance underneath has long since melted away. The wool is smooth and thick under his hands, holding his warmth even under the onslaught of the depths of winter, the deep freeze driving all but a hearty few to hibernate in their homes.

Sometimes, London frozen solid reminds him of home, of years in which the temperatures drop so low that the grey world grinds to a halt, and the sky is crushed tight in a grip altogether too cold for it to snow.

More often than not, however, the frigid weather reminds Nikolai of nothing, and certainly not a younger self, walking home with friends of an evening long ago. He does not even glance at the tattoos on his hands as he hangs up his coat, putting it neatly away.

He no longer knows which ink is his own, and which belongs to his other life, his strange other world. On some level, he's not sure he cares. Who he was has long since ceased to matter, and who he is now is whomever he needs to be. The brands on his skin no longer burn with his sins; only late at night, when drifts of snow have swallowed all sound but the thoughts skittering through his head do they ache, a dull throb that beats a different sort of tattoo on his heart.

Those nights, he finds it harder and harder to stop himself from creeping unbidden into Kirill's rooms, slipping through the dark to stand at the foot of his bed, stare at the space he knows Kirill sleeps in, but if he means to strangle his Prince or fuck him, he's never sure.

He supposes, when the time comes, who he is won't matter at all.


End file.
